


Meryl, Second Person

by ifreet



Category: Trigun
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-23
Updated: 2005-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One way it could have happened.  Spoilers for episode 23.</p><p><i>So there you are, sitting at the bar, nursing your beer. Just one beer, though you've been sitting there long enough that most people would be on their third, maybe fourth. Good girls don't drink to excess, though. You knock the bottle back again, a quick gulp. You're only going to have one, and then you're going to get up and return to your life already in progress, your responsibilities, your report writing, your supervising, your observing...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Meryl, Second Person

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrswolfwood](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mrswolfwood).



So there you are, sitting at the bar, nursing your beer. Just one beer, though you've been sitting there long enough that most people would be on their third, maybe fourth. Good girls don't drink to excess, though. You knock the bottle back again, a quick gulp. You're only going to have one, and then you're going to get up and return to your life already in progress, your responsibilities, your report writing, your supervising, your observing...

You sigh, roll the bottom of the bottle back and forth in a short arc on the surface of the bar. The scars, scrapes and dents of the bar make the motion ragged, uneven in interesting-feeling ways. You know you should finish your drink and go, but you're delaying. While it's not actually cool in the bar -- nothing is cool on this planet, except for that ice room and that will only lead back to the thoughts you are avoiding -- it is more shady than the street outside. An escape from another day of heat and work and no recognition and possibly getting shot at. Hasn't happened yet, but the day's still young.

You push back from the bar, take the last sip of beer standing, and turn to go. Framed in the doorway is someone attached to the very group you'd been avoiding. The huge cross-shaped weapon slung over his back is unmistakable. He can't have been there long; you'd chosen your seat carefully, watching the bar in the mirror out of long ingrained habit. And yet, you feel snuck up on.

He meets your gaze over his dipping shades, waves with the hand not supporting his gun case. You wave back, lean slightly back against the bar in a pose that looks casual but puts a derringer within easy reach. Nicholas D. Wolfwood is many things, but trustworthy isn't particularly high on the list. Daddy didn't raise a fool. You don't know him enough to trust him.

"Hey, Short-Girl," he says, "fancy meeting you here." His eyes twinkle as though he's imparting a great joke.

The cliché pick-up line wins him a snort.

"Buy you a drink?" The corner of his mouth quirks up in a way that tells you he knows you'll say no.

"Do you actually have any money?" you ask with sarcastic tone, but sit back down. Never could resist a dare.

"It's the thought that counts," he replies, with a choirboy smile, setting his case down with a solid thwump on the scuffed wooden floor. How anyone can not suspect that cloth-wrapped cross is more dangerous than it appears is beyond you. Maybe that's just your upbringing showing, though.

"So, I'm buying you a drink, then?" You wave to the barkeep, signal for two more bottles.

"Thanks," he mumbles around the cigarette he's just placed in his mouth to light.

You just shake your head. The beers appear, another of your bills disappears into the bar's till. One of your paychecks had managed to find you. You'd split it with Milly, and advised her sternly not to do what you were now doing -- waste it. You sigh and sip your beer.

You find him easy to talk to, which surprises you. But he asks just the right questions, gives just the right responses, and before long you find yourself telling him the thoughts you bite back on, the impolite thoughts, the thoughts a good girl doesn't share. That, as a woman, you don't get any respect in your company. That your junior partner is going to face the same, and you don't know whether she'll be able to handle it, because Milly is strong, but maybe not the right kind of strong. That maybe your boss is pissed because this assignment was meant to be the failure that made you quit, but you haven't. That you're tired. That Vash the Stampede doesn't deserve half the negative attention his reputation attracts.

"Yeah, well." His eyes look sad. He draws from the bottle, and when the bottle is lowered, his expression has returned to the rueful humor he normally wears. "If people only ever got what they deserved, we'd both be out of jobs."

You're laughing, unexpectedly. "Too true." Your bottle clanks against his, before you drink, making it a toast. When you're done, the bottle is empty, and the street outside the bar is full of heavy, late afternoon shadows. "I should go."

He touches you for the first time, his larger, calloused hand covering yours where it rests against the bar. "Stay?"

You laugh it off, not sure if maybe you're not supposed to. "I can't. Work," you explain succinctly. You push away from the bar to stand, but your hand stays in place, gently trapped by a soft touch. You should pull away.

You don't.

He stands as well. "I'll walk you back, then." His hand leaves yours to pick up the cross. You feel its absence as keenly as you had its presence. You berate yourself as four kinds of foolish.

He walks you back through the streets, filled with strangers going about their day to day lives. Neither of you is talking now. He's lit a new cigarette. You are thinking, trying to think about the report you've yet to write. About what to tell Milly about why you've been gone so long that won't hurt her feelings. She would be your confidant, if you'd let her. But you don't dare, in case you'd lose her respect.

And you've reached the hotel, and Wolfwood is walking you up to your room, which makes you shrug but not comment. The door is locked, so you let yourself in with the key, thinking Milly has finally remembered a lesson or two about personal security, but the door opens on an empty room. You frown, then see a note laid on the flimsy wood table, next to your traveling typewriter. A note from Milly in loopy girl's handwriting, who has gone out with "Mr. Vash" to find dinner, so please don't worry, smiley face.

A shadow falls across the paper, and you look back and up -- always up, and why is everyone of your acquaintance so damn tall -- to see that Wolfwood has followed you in through the open door and has pulled off his shades to read over your shoulder. Careless of you to leave a door open at your back. Careless of you not to notice him walking in. Even if he is, maybe, a friend.

He reaches around you to hold the note steady. Discomfited, you leave the note in his hand, taking a small step out from the circle of his arm. The door is closed now, his cross resting against it. And you frown, because you hadn't heard that either.

"Sounds like they'll be out for awhile," he says, looking at you.

You nod slightly, open your mouth to say -- something, you don't know what because just as suddenly as that he's kissing you. And it's so good, and it's been so long since anyone touched you like this, his mouth hot against yours, one hand tangled in your hair, but still so much space between you. And you groan and kiss him back and -- and then you remember and push him away. Your hands feel so small against his solid chest. His mouth leaves yours, but he doesn't budge further, hand still in your hair, cradling your head, blue eyes staring curiously into yours. And you remember, make yourself remember, that Milly likes him, really likes him, even if she hasn't actually said it yet. And good girls don't kiss the boy their friend likes.

"Meryl," he says, in a husky voice. "Don't. Don't think. Just let me..." And his lips are brushing against yours as he finishes the sentence, your lips are tingling, then he's sealing his mouth to yours again, and you think 'maybe.' He tastes of cigarettes and of ashes, and you wonder if you taste of desert and dust. His hand holds you still gently but firmly, and he's kissing you like you're a spring in the desert, like he could dive into you and consume you from within.

His other hand is lifting to the fastenings of your cape, and you're thinking, yes, you're going to let him do this, when an errant thought drifts through wearing your father's voice: "No one handles your weapons but you, Meryl-girl." And that's disconcerting enough for you to break away from him again. And this time he lets you go, hands falling to his sides, a wall coming back up in his eyes that you hadn't even realized had come down.

"No, let me," you say, and realize you've decided. His eyes brighten, the choirboy smile lights again upon his face. You can't bring yourself to regret bringing that expression to his face, and firmly push aside thoughts of consequence. You undo the cape, set it carefully on the ladder-back chair.

He's still watching you, so you undo your cravat, toss it aside. Your hands fumble at buttons and you're starting to feel self-conscious, when he moves, dropping his jacket off his shoulders to the floor and stepping in close to you.

And a month later, the memories sweep through your mind, like a jumpy, distorted filmstrip, as you stand by watching Milly sob her heart into pieces over the news of his death. And you don't know what to say.


End file.
